


Section 65

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agents of SHIELD Compliant, Anger, Angry Sex, Angst, Barebacking, But not on purpose this time, Catharsis, Comfort Sex, Crying, Dubious Consent, Embarrassment, F/M, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Nerdiness, Nick Fury is a dick, Phil Coulson Is a Good Bro, Post-Avengers (2012), SHIELD Has Paperwork For That, Sex Pollen, Team Feels, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Voyeurism, Wake-Up Sex, emotions are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Always keep your paperwork in order. Never know when you're going to need it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a sex pollen story and, as such, has the same consent issues as all sex pollen stories. Please be advised.

This is the first time in Bruce's natural life that he can count himself as the lucky one.

That's really, really mean, but the way Clint is feeling now, he'd probably tell him anyway. But no, they're all in the surprisingly large quarantine facility in SHIELD HQ, and Bruce is in quarantine-within-quarantine, sequestered in a little cubicle all to himself, the lights dimmed. Clint can just see him through the door; he's kind of sprawled across the bed, in his post-Hulk passed-out mode, his mouth open, and Clint just knows he's snoring like a chainsaw.

Bruce is not lucky because he got his own bedroom. Bruce is lucky because the fucking Hulk is fucking immune to fucking-

Clint can't even say it.

Part of that is because he doesn't know what to call it. Tony has been calling it multiple things, but has settled on "Super Axe"; Thor refers to it as "the golden mist"; Steve just says "the, um, spray"; Natasha hasn't said anything about it at all. Natasha's contribution has been to stand around and look unamused, because, in fairness, she called it. You fight with mad scientists, sometimes shit goes down, and when she'd yelled that Thor shouldn't hit the weird, weeping plant with Mjolnir, he should have listened. But Thor hit it alright; he hit it hard enough that the thing practically vaporized, spraying all of them with the whatever the fuck.

No one outside quarantine has a clue what to call it either, but then some fucking nerd on the medical team- Clint has no problem with nerds, Clint has been known to enjoy their kind, not just because they always have the coolest toys, but in this case he can be forgiven for using it pejoratively- this motherfucking nerd calls it fucking sex pollen, and now they're all nodding their heads and congratulating him on his naming skills.

The point is that Bruce isn't contaminated, they don't think, so he's in there sleeping his Hulk off while Clint tries not to think about his dick for thirty seconds.

His own dick. Not Bruce's dick. Though now that he thinks about it-

No. Bad Clint. Bad, bad Clint.

Clint shuts his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He's sitting in a chair against the wall, and stuff is going on around him. There are people in hazmat suits fixing up quarantine rooms; Clint knows what they're putting in there, but he tries not to think about it. The large monitor showing the feed from observation is over his head, and Steve is talking to the scientists on the other side, his voice calm and Captain-ly despite the fact that his cheeks have been red from embarrassment this entire time, and Clint thinks about how close they are together, how he could get on his knees and-

Oh, for Christ's fucking sake.

He opens his eyes in time to see the hazmat crew leaving, which is right about the time Fury says, "Captain Rogers," from the monitor, immediately followed by a, "Where's Barton?" that Clint can hear the frown in.

Clint stands up immediately, super careful not to get within three feet of anyone else, and turns around to face the monitor. "Sir."

"Gentlemen," he says. "Agent Romanov. I am officially notifying you that I have put Section 65 into effect." Natasha makes a sort of contemplative sound; Steve startles when she grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him towards one of the isolation rooms.

"Seriously?" Clint says to her, and she turns back towards him, shrugging at him before shutting the door behind her and Steve.

"Uh," Tony says, looking around at them in confusion. "Anybody want to share with the class?" Tony, out of all of them, definitely looks the most ridiculous; while everybody else managed to-

Behind them, the door to Natasha and Steve's room opens and a big wad of clothing comes flying out.

Everybody else managed to get spare clothes, but for reasons no one enumerated to Clint, Tony is standing there with in just a hospital gown, which he's wearing folded over and tied around his waist. _Easy access_ , Clint thinks, because no matter how he looks, Clint would still throw him down and fuck the shit right out of him.

That one Clint allows himself. Tony is easy and Pepper doesn't care, so fuck it.

"Section 65," Fury says, "is the part of the paperwork which you signed when you became a consultant- and don't give me that 'I didn't know what I was signing' shit, because you put your damn thumbprint on it and that's all that matters to me- that covers the responsibilities and rights of one person of your choosing. That person not only acts as the agent of your medical proxy, but is allowed, for example, unrestricted access to you in situations other than-"

Clint frowns.

"-or to potentially take your place in a-"

Who the hell is his Section 65? When's the last time he changed it?

"-or, under the right circumstances, to use-"

Something's not quite right about this.

"-and of course, given the threat of alien invasion, it's possible that-"

"Mother _fucker!_ " Clint shouts, when it suddenly hits him, and everyone turns to look at him. Fury tilts his head, giving Clint his best 'You have a ten second head start' glare. "Um," Clint says, ashamed. "Not you, sir."

"What I am telling you, Stark," Fury says, staring at Clint for another moment before turning to look at Tony, "is that since you appointed that person while in full control of yourself and gave them those responsibilities, I have decided that they will be authorized to assist you."

"Oh," Tony says, sounding relieved. "Sounds good."

"Sir-" Clint starts, but Fury stares him down.

The airlock opens suddenly, and Pepper steps through, just like Clint knew she would. Tony gives her a grin that makes Clint's toes curl. "Hey, babe," he says, and before Pepper can even respond, Tony just picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. Pepper, because the two of them are so made for each other that it's sickening sometimes, just fucking laughs, protesting in that way that's not really protesting, hitting him on the back until he slaps her ass. "See ya," Tony says, carrying her into one of the rooms and slamming the door.

"And then there were two," Clint says under his breath.

Thor looks unconcerned, nonchalant even, but the Hammer of the Gods is making itself known through his pants, and _damn_. "I signed none of this paperwork," Thor says. "What am I to do?"

"I'll go with Thor," Clint says quickly, then presses his lips tight together so that he can't beg for it.

Thor looks at him seriously, putting his hand on Clint's shoulder, and Clint really wants to climb him like a tree. "Barton, my friend," he says. "I would not do such a thing to you. You have made your choice. I will respect you in this."

Thor turns away before Clint can start giving him puppy-dog eyes, which is probably for the best. "We're aware of your situation," Fury says, nodding. "We wanted to consult you before deciding how to proceed."

"Anyone who wishes to come to my aid will be welcomed as a friend," Thor says, so apparently Clint isn't his friend right now. "I swear by Yggdrasil that they will not come to harm."

"I volunteer!" someone in the observation room shouts, and Clint presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Fucking _nerds_. "Um," he adds in a quieter voice. "Uh, what I mean, Director Fury, is that-"

Fury shakes his head. "Thor, is that good for you?"

"Of course," Thor says. "Let him come."

"Get to quarantine, Valdez," Fury says, and Valdez hurries off as quick as his two little legs can carry him.

Fury turns around, talking to the scientists, and Clint just kind of stands there, trying to decide if he's more pissed off or more horny; it's a close race. He doesn't know how far the observation room actually is from quarantine, but Valdez is there in a flash. He's this tiny dude, and Clint looks at the two of them skeptically. But Thor slaps him on the back and gives him a bear hug, and Valdez looks like he might swoon, and they go off together, happy as can be.

When Clint stops watching and turns back around to look at the monitor, Fury is looking straight at him, and Clint jumps. "He's almost here," Fury tells him, and Clint doesn't ask who. "You're lucky he hadn't left yet."

Clint rubs his forehead; he stops, suddenly finding his loophole. "Sir," Clint says. "Section 65 can be overridden." Fury raises his eyebrow at him. Clint can't believe what he's about to do. It's not that he objects to the thought of taking it from Fury, because really, who would possibly object to that; it's more that he's about to proposition his boss- who, it cannot be overstated, is _Nicholas fucking Fury_ \- in front of a bunch of SHIELD's best and brightest. "In cases of duress, Section 65 can be nullified if the Dir-"

Fury held up a finger. "Consider what you are about to say to me, Specialist Barton," Fury says. "Because I am not going to do what you are going to propose, and I am going to say so in front of all these people. Think very hard about whether or not that's what you want to happen right now." Clint very wisely doesn't say anything. "If you would like to accuse me of covering my own ass by putting you in this situation, please feel free, because that is what I am doing. You are not yourself, and normal-you made your decision already. Deal with it."

Someone offscreen says something, and Fury turns to listen. "He's here," Fury says to Clint. "Good luck, Barton."

Clint sighs, crossing his arms. He keeps looking at the monitor, but there's no one looking back at him; they've abandoned him, the bastards. He really, really hates all of them, despite the fact that he feels like he could let about six of them take turns on him right now, just put him on his back or his stomach or his knees and-

The airlock opens.

"Good afternoon, Specialist," Coulson says, as he steps through, looking as intimidating and put together as usual despite the fact that he's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

"Afternoon," Clint grumbles.

"This way, I think," Coulson says, opening the door to the last room and holding out an arm in invitation. Clint sighs, resigned to his fate at last.

He walks past Coulson and into the room. He doesn't touch Coulson, and Coulson doesn't touch him.

 _Fucking great,_ Clint thinks. Because a nice long stay in quarantine with his goddamn ex was just what he needed to make this day complete.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Clint enters, Coulson shuts the flimsy door. The room isn't tiny- there's room for two chairs, a bed, a side table, a curtain that leads to something or another- but it is uncomfortably small when there are two people in it. Maybe that's just because the two people in it are him and Coulson, but whatever. Clint sits down while Coulson checks the room out, not that there's a lot to look at. There is an uncomfortably large stock of condoms and lube and stuff on the table, and Clint ignores it. He's also ignoring the fact that this place is covered in cameras. Clint knows exactly where he'd put them, but he can't actually see them, because really, this is SHIELD and what kind of covert organization would that make them? Clint looks up a little higher-

"Seems like they gave us a whole box of dental dams and no ceiling," Coulson says.

He's right, of course. The partitions between the rooms go up maybe ten feet, but they don't reach the height of the quarantine room itself.

Clint wonders if, if he could manage to scale the partition, he could touch the actual ceiling; there's got to be ductwork up there, and while you can't actually crawl around in it like they do in action movies, all he really needs to do is to get to a vent that's big enough to fit through, because then when he falls through the ceiling he'll be on the other side, where he can run like fuck and hope they don't catch him, possibly forever.

But then again, it's entirely possible all the vents have fans in them. But are the filters before or after the fans? Would getting chopped up by a fan blade really be so bad, if the alternative is-

"Hey," Coulson says, pulling back the curtain. "There's a toilet back here."

"Huh," Clint says, sitting back against the partition, resting his head on it and closing his eyes.

And then somebody moans.

Clint puts two and two together. "Fuck me running," he says, putting his hand over his face.

"Soundproofing was apparently not a consideration in the time available," Coulson says dryly, sitting down across from Clint. "How do you feel?"

"None of your goddamn business," Clint says. The answer is some combination of angry, feverish, horny, horny, extra horny, and like his sweats are about three sizes too small and made of burlap, especially in the crotch region.

"Director Fury made it my goddamn business," Coulson snaps.

Clint doesn't respond. He takes his hand away from his face, staring daggers at Coulson, and Coulson stares back.

Nobody says anything else for a long time. Clint considers taking a nap, because for fuck's sake, when they got spooged on by the freaky sex plant they were in the middle of a fucking battle, and he hasn't exactly had time to recover. It's just that a nap isn't really possible, because now he's itching, fidgety. The porno soundtrack is still going on around them, and Clint can't take it. He can see it, the improbable positions they've gotten themselves in- okay the improbable positions are Clint's idea but that doesn't make it any less true that they're fucking and Clint can hear it and it's fucking him up really badly.

It's not the biggest surprise in the world that Thor is the loud one. He sounds like he's over there doing glorious battle, only with- there's a joke about swordfighting in there that Clint's not going to make. Tony and Pepper are laughing like they're having a grand old time, like this is a weird SHIELD-sponsored sex vacation, like it's totally not fucked up that they're banging in front of their nearest and dearest.

That's not what gets Clint, even though it's bad enough, because really, that's only tacky. Next door is the problem.

Natasha doesn't make noise as a rule, but Steve is fucking her about three feet from the partition that Clint has his head against, and she's letting out these gasps, soft and achy, and ever so quietly Steve says, "Is this okay?" and Clint would give anything to go over there and join them, join any of them, do anything to make this _stop_.

Clint bends over, putting his hands behind his neck and lacing his fingers together. "Get out," he says, through clenched teeth.

"You know I'm not going to do that, Barton," Coulson replies.

"Then go in the fucking toilet cave or something," Clint says. "I'm gonna jerk off, so get out."

Clint doesn't expect Coulson to move, but then he hears the curtain open and close. He looks up and realizes that he is finally, blessedly alone.

He shoves his sweats down around his thighs, getting his hand around his cock, and he moans embarrassingly loudly at the feeling. It feels so good, so fucking good to stroke himself, to _do something_ about what's building inside of him. He tries to blot out everything but the feeling of it, everything except the sensation of skin on skin. He doesn't think about his teammates, even though apparently those fucking hedonists are way past giving a fuck. He doesn't think about porn, because really, if he wanted porn his teammates are better. If he were doing this under normal conditions, he'd think about some past experience, what it felt like then, but that's not exactly going to work right now.

Because the last time he got fucked, it had been Coulson on top of him, pushing into him so sweet and slow, drawing it out, giving him everything. Clint hadn't held back at all, wanted to do as much for him as possible, let him take whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted, because Clint had already known, already decided. And then the morning after, Clint had-

"Shit," Clint hisses, taking his hand off his cock. This isn't fucking doing anything but making him depressed. He pulls his pants back up, despite the fact that even the touch of the fabric hurts. "You can come back in."

Coulson opens the curtain again, walking out and sitting back down. He looks at Clint's crotch, then up to Clint, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Fuck you, Coulson," Clint snaps, and Coulson shrugs.

They stare at each other some more. Clint's teammates have not given it up yet; Clint doesn't like what that says. He thought this was gonna be a come-and-done sort of thing, a one-off, but it's been way too long for that. Fucking great.

"I don't know why you're making this so hard on yourself," Coulson says.

"Yeah, well, my willpower is the stuff of legend," Clint says. "After Loki, maybe literally."

"There's a difference between willpower and stubbornness," Coulson tells him.

"Got plenty of that, too," Clint says.

"You're miserable, and you're possibly doing yourself damage," Coulson says.

Clint wishes that it had never come to this. He wishes he knew the magic words to make it okay; he really wishes he didn't hate Coulson right now, because Coulson is right, in more ways that he knows.

"Quit fucking talking to me like this is an interrogation," Clint snaps. "If you think you can make me crack, then fuck off."

Coulson sighs angrily. "If you're going to be like this, I'm going to-"

"You're going to what?" Clint demands. "Disobey a direct order and leave me here to die? Fuck me for my own good, whether I want you to or not?"

"You make me tired, Barton," Coulson says, rubbing his temple. It's not a denial. 

The rational part of Clint knows what Coulson would never, ever do either of those things, no matter what; what Coulson is going to do is sit here and watch him, wait until he really does crack or until he has to be given medical attention. That doesn't change the fact that Clint's heart is pounding, that he feels like he might suffocate, that he wants to run.

"Clint," Coulson says carefully. "I need you to breathe. Calm down and breathe."

"Fuck this," Clint says, standing up and whipping his shirt off, throwing it away. "You came here to fuck me, right? So come on and do it." He pushes his pants down, tossing them onto the chair. When Coulson doesn't move, Clint gets right up in his face. "Fucking do it, Coulson."

He's not expecting Coulson to push him towards the bed, turning him around and bending him over it. "I said to calm the fuck down," Coulson says. "If you give yourself a heart attack, it's not my goddamn problem."

It's only moments before Coulson's slick fingers are inside him, opening him up. Clint groans; it feels so good, and he doesn't even try to stop himself from pushing back. He wants to tell Coulson to hurry it the fuck up, but the one brain cell he has left is reminding him that he's going to need the prep, especially because there's a pretty good chance he's going to go through this again.

"No condom," Clint says, when Coulson pulls his fingers out; he's not even sure why, just knows it's what he wants.

"Are you clean?" Coulson asks, and Clint hears everything behind it, clearly hears Coulson calling him a slut.

"Yeah," Clint says, shutting his eyes, putting his face against the mattress before he can accuse Coulson of anything, delay this any longer.

Coulson apparently takes his word for it, because then he's pushing inside of Clint. Clint lets the mattress muffle his scream; getting Coulson's dick inside him feels better than anything he has ever felt in his entire life.

It doesn't last long. Coulson doesn't even take his clothes off. He just fucks Clint hard and fast and, thank god, ignores Clint's incoherent begging. It's maybe five minutes before Clint comes, spattering the mattress and the floor with it. Coulson lasts maybe a minute longer, then comes in Clint's ass.

That's about it.

Coulson pulls away, cleaning up, but Clint doesn't move for a long moment, not until Coulson has already sat back down. Clint straightens up, grabbing his pants from the chair and pulling them back on again, not bothering with his shirt.

"Any better?" Coulson asks. There's no judgement in the words, no sneer, nothing that Clint expects.

Clint takes stock of himself. The itching is better, and he doesn't feel like he's going to hyperventilate. "Yeah," he says. He wonders if he should thank Coulson or something, but Coulson just nods, and Clint leaves it at that.

He and Coulson still don't talk. It's quieter in quarantine now. Clint isn't sure if everybody's napping or if they're just fucking more calmly, but at least nobody is screaming like a porn star anymore.

Well, okay, somebody just screamed, and he's pretty sure it was Valdez, because Thor laughed afterwards, but it's not like Clint ever expected Thor to be quiet.

It's harder to be angry now. Maybe that's not true, maybe it's just easier to be melancholy in the silence. Clint feels less like he wants to beat the shit out of Coulson; he still doesn't like the guy, hasn't for a long time, but it's more tolerable to be alone in a room with him, even if Clint keeps replaying what just happened in his mind, even if his ass is sore and slick with come.

Clint wishes they'd left some sudoku books in here. He'd take crossword puzzles, too. Hell, he'd take People Magazine at this point, any port in a storm.

There aren't any clocks, but Clint has good time-sense; it's been probably thirty minutes since Coulson fucked him. Clint already knows that it needs to happen again, the feverish, tense feeling creeping back up on him. He doesn't know how soon, but then the action starts to pick back up in the other rooms, and he knows it won't be long.

"Know any good knock-knock jokes?" Clint asks, just to distract himself, and Coulson just snorts.

Clint thinks he can probably get through this if he just stays level-headed. The last time, he let himself get too angry; he ignored it for too long. He should have taken Coulson's help, even if he didn't want to, because the alternative is too much.

He holds out for maybe another twenty minutes; right about the time he starts thinking about smashing Coulson's face in again, he stands up, calmly taking off his pants. "Need it again," Clint says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Coulson nods, standing up. "How do you want it?"

Clint grabs the pillow, lying down and putting it under his head, his feet still on the floor. "Like this."

Coulson gets the lube, slicking Clint up again, just to be careful. Clint bites his lip as Coulson pushes inside; it doesn't feel as strong this time, but it's still good, takes away the pain.

They fuck for a while, and then Clint looks up at Coulson, and Coulson looks so, so _blasé_ about it that Clint gets pissed off all over again. Clint feels the same way, just wants this to be over, but something about that look is just infuriating.

"Am I boring you, sir?" Clint says snidely.

"Shut up, Barton," Coulson says.

"I don't want to be here any more than you do," Clint snaps. He's aware that his voice is rising, but he's not sure how to stop it. "But you could do me the fucking courtesy of-"

" _Why,_ Clint?" Coulson says. "What do you think I owe you? I wouldn't even be here if you kept your fucking paperwork up to date. And if you'll recall, _you_ broke up with _me_."

"What the fuck did it matter to you?" Clint says. "All you fucking did was leave. You'd have done it anyway sooner or later, no matter what I did."

"I was _dead_ , Barton!" Coulson says, and oh great, now they're both yelling. "Do you think I did it just to piss you off?"

"Don't you fucking give me that," Clint says. "You know that's not what I fucking meant."

"No, I don't," Coulson says. "I have no idea what the fuck you mean."

"You _left_ ," Clint says. "I'm not a Level fucking Seven. I didn't even know you were alive, and then suddenly you had your cute little team and you took your stupid fucking plane and you just left, and you were _never_ coming back." Clint's voice cracks on the words. "You left me."

Suddenly Phil is gathering him up, holding Clint to his chest. Clint is so tired and so angry and so sick of everything and his heart hurts _so much_ and god help him, he just bursts out crying.

"Shh," Phil says, smoothing his hand over Clint's hair. "Shh, Clint, it's okay. Here." He guides him onto the bed, laying him out properly and putting the pillow under his head. He quickly strips before he climbs in behind Clint, retrieving the blanket and pulling it up over the two of them, rolling Clint over gently and molding himself to Clint's back.

"Fuck me," Clint says, grabbing Phil's wrist when he feels Phil tense. "Everything hurts so much. Please don't make it worse."

"Okay," Phil says quietly; he strokes himself for a moment, getting it back together before he pushes into Clint again. Phil is so close to him; suddenly Clint realizes the thing he can feel against his back is Phil's scar, and now he's sobbing, completely gone. Clint can't do anything but lie there, letting Phil hold him, too exhausted for anything else.

"Clint," Steve says from the other room. He sounds wary, concerned, and Clint very suddenly realizes that no one else is making any noise. He also realizes what it sounded like; all they heard was yelling and then sobbing, which isn't really the best thing to hear in a situation like this one. "Do you need help?"

In his head he can see the wordless conversation that Steve and Natasha just had, Natasha's trust in him versus Steve's need to protect him, Natasha finally relenting and letting Steve do it. Something twists in Clint's chest, the knowledge that they'd stand up for him like that touching him deep down somewhere.

He wants to express his gratitude, but he's so embarrassed, feels so small, and what comes out of his mouth instead is, "Go fuck yourself, Rogers," in a broken, ugly sob.

"It's alright, Captain," Phil says, calm and steady, gripping Clint tighter. "We're okay."

"Okay," Steve says, though he sounds more perplexed than convinced. "If you need anything, we can-"

Steve is cut off when Tony lets out the loudest, most theatrical moan that anyone has ever let out in the history of all theatrical moans, followed by a softer, "Follow my lead, Pep, just trust me on this." It's more than loud enough to cover up Clint's crying, and even through his tears Clint laughs.

He loves these stupid idiots. Sometimes he forgets how much.

Behind him Phil is still moving, rocking slowly in and out of him; it's almost like they're not even having sex, like it's just another point of connection between them, another way to be closer. Phil is kissing his hair, the back of his neck, saying soft, meaningless things to him. Clint comes, and it's just a thing that happens, a release of pressure; Phil doesn't stop, still moving inside him, keeping the fever at bay, keeping him safe. Eventually Clint falls asleep like that, Phil still holding him.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clint wakes up, it's to the feeling of a warm, wet mouth on his cock, moving slowly up and down on him, sucking him just right.

"Phil," he sighs, reaching down and-

He opens one eye, looking at whoever it is, really, _really_ hoping he got it right. It's not like he's in the habit of getting blowjobs from dozens of people or anything, but he's not entirely sure the last however-many hours actually happened, and he hasn't even seen Phil since-

Oh good.

He puts his hand on the back of Phil's head, not pushing, just running his fingers through Phil's hair, just touching him. Phil is great at this, and it seems like he hasn't forgotten what Clint likes, what he needs. He wants it to last forever, but he also wants to come down Phil's throat as fast as he can, and in the end, it's not surprising that coming wins.

When he's done, he pulls Phil up, kissing him over and over again, slow and quiet. "Thanks," Clint says, not sure if it's the right thing, not even sure what all he's referring to.

"You looked like you needed it," Phil says, his hand on Clint's face, thumb tracing Clint's cheekbone.

"We should talk," Clint says reluctantly, rolling over to face him, and Phil nods. "Why did you come?" Clint asks, because if there's going to be talking, it's going to happen now, because once they leave this room, chances of it ever happening are going to drop rapidly.

"It was my responsibility," Phil says. "You needed somebody, so I came. I didn't even know what they needed me for until I was already on my way."

"Would you have come if you'd known?" Clint asks, though he doesn't really want the answer.

"Yes," Phil says. "I made a promise. I don't break my promises. I would have come no matter what you needed."

"Oh," Clint says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"My turn," Phil says. "Why did you break up with me?"

"That's not fair," Clint tells him. "My question was way easier than that."

"Should have thought about that when it was your turn," Phil says.

"Um," Clint says, looking away from Phil's face as he tries to get his thoughts in order. "You started talking about big things. Serious things. I got scared. I thought we were going to get into something deeper, and I was still gonna fuck it up, and you were gonna leave me. I didn't think I could take that, so I bolted."

"That's not what you said when you left," Phil said.

"I don't remember what I said," Clint says. It's a lie; he remembers the fight in great detail, has played it back in his mind about a million times, but the last thing he wants is to think about it again. "I would have said anything. I thought-" He shuts his eyes. "I thought it would be easier to handle if you didn't love me. If we didn't love each other."

"Clint," Phil says softly; Clint doesn't know if there's anything that's supposed to follow it, but he has to keep going anyway, before his words dry up for good.

"I was actually good at it for a while, y'know?" Clint continues. "I finally got to the point where I honestly didn't care. I was totally fine. And then you died, and I realized how bad I'd fucked up. I prayed night and day for a second chance, for one more minute, so at the very least I could tell you I was _sorry_." He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "And then you were alive, and for about thirty seconds I was overjoyed, but then I found out that you'd already picked your new team and left, and I, I felt like you betrayed me. Like I'd tried so hard to get this one chance, and you snatched it away. You didn't but-" He shrugged. "That's how I felt."

"I never hated you," Phil says; Clint puts his head on Phil's chest, but Phil doesn't let him get away with it, tilting his face back up and making Clint look him in the eye. "You broke my heart, and you made me furious, but I never stopped loving you, no matter what I tried." Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Phil cuts him off. "Whatever you're going to say, don't say it. You wanted another chance, and this is it. Don't fuck it up now."

"I'm so sorry," Clint says. "I guess I don't know what to do with a good thing."

"Just stay," Phil tells him. "Just talk to me. We'll handle it."

"I really need you right now," Clint says shakily.

"Okay," Phil says, kissing him softly as he rolls them over, reaching for the lube. He opens Clint slowly, not taking his mouth away from Clint's. Clint's dick isn't even hard, but he knows he has to have this, can't stop, won't let go.

He cries out, clutching at Phil's arms when Phil pushes inside of him. It feels different, so much better, so satisfying.

"Phil," he says, as they move together. "Phil, please, I want you, I want you so much-"

Phil bends down, kissing him hard, wrapping his hand around Clint's dick. "I love you," he says, with an intensity that scares Clint, even as it unlocks something in his chest. Clint doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, just keeps saying Phil's name over and over again, as if that will make Phil understand everything that he can't say.

When Clint finally comes, it seems like it happens forever, moves through his entire body, shakes him apart, but Phil is there, Phil is holding him together, Phil won't let him go.

They're lying there afterwards, just sort of looking at each other with faces that are maybe a little dopey and sentimental, when there's a knock on the door. "Hey, guys," Natasha says softly. "There's food if you want some."

"Guess we should probably get up," Phil says reluctantly.

"Yeah, probably," Clint says. "Now get out of my way. I have to go to the toilet cave."

"Asshole," Phil says affectionately, but he gets out of bed anyway.

When Clint is done in the bathroom, Phil is dressed; Clint pulls on his clothes, giving Phil a quick kiss before they leave. Outside their door, everyone else is sitting around a big folding table eating, a weird variety of foods in front of them. Natasha picks up a dish of what Clint thinks are pierogies, spooning more onto her plate. Steve has a sandwich in his hand and seems to be attempting to eat it, but he's also doing the nod-off-jerk-awake thing, so it's not really working for him. Pepper really is asleep, dangerously close to having faceplanted into her cereal, and next to her, Tony is shoveling fries into his mouth. Thor has Valdez just straight up sitting on his lap, and he's feeding the guy grapes with one hand while he holds his smoothie in the other.

"My friends," Thor says warmly; Steve jerks awake again, and Tony says something like "Bmlrhf", but that's about as good of a welcome as they get.

Clint pulls up a chair for Phil and another one for himself, sitting down. "Is everybody, uh, okay?" Clint asks.

"I can answer that one," Bruce says from the monitor. "I've done some tests, and while it varies, of course, by weight and body composition, the toxin should be clear of your system by now."

"Really?" Clint says, frowning.

"Yeah, it stopped maybe three hours ago," Natasha says. Clint looks suspiciously at Phil, but Phil gives him the universal 'Hey, don't look at me' gesture.

Tony swallows. "We didn't want to wake you up," he says. He grins. "Then we didn't want to interrupt you." 

Clint realizes then that there are several sets of eyes on him, waiting for him to do something, waiting to see his reaction.

Clint shrugs.

"Got another plate?" Clint asks, and Steve hands him and Phil each one. "Hey, pass me the pierogies."

"The plural of pierogi is pierogi," Natasha says. "And this is ravioli."

"Then pass me the raviolis," Clint says, and Natasha rolls her eyes, but she gives him the dish anyway.

While Clint eats, maybe he puts his arm over the back of Phil's chair, and maybe Phil doesn't stop him.

And maybe it's okay.


End file.
